First Five Times
by SuperNatasha
Summary: A progression of John and Sherlock's physical/emotional relationship, set to the song "The First Five Times" by Stars. Spanning both seasons. Some minor plot discrepancies may appear. Rated M- obviously.


A progression of John and Sherlock's physical/emotional relationship, set to the song "The First Five Times" by _Stars_. Spanning both seasons. Some minor plot discrepancies may appear. Rated M- obviously. Reviews and critiques welcome!

* * *

John runs hard as he struggles to keep up with Sherlock on the rooftops. His breath comes in wheezes, he can hardly see Sherlock ahead of him with the deafening rain pouring from the night skies, and there is a terror in the back of his mind that he is going to fall to his death.

"Asshole; he's a fucking asshole," John gasps, rivulets of water running down his face and down his back. Sherlock _knew_ the murderer would be in his flat and he hadn't bothered to tell John about it. The least the ex-army doctor could have done was bring his goddamn pistol. Particularly after the Blind Banker, John understood the massive danger living with Sherlock Holmes could bring.

("Ah," Sherlock had remarked casually when they had picked the lock to the criminal's front door, "there you are. Don't be so obvious next time." And then the man had thrown an iron vase at Sherlock's head and jumped out the fire escape, Sherlock shadowing him out; John hardly had any choice but to follow. Everything was happening too fast.)

Suddenly, the black coat and blue scarf he'd been behind disappears. He'd been having a difficult time keeping track of him as it was and John couldn't even see the murderer, but now there was no trace of either. "Sherlock!" John screams, afraid the detective had slipped. He tries to wipe the rain out of his eyes but it's hard enough to even keep them open at this point; the angle of the wind has changed and he's freezing.

"John! Down here!" He hears Sherlock yell back.

John glances down the edge of the building just in time to see Sherlock rounding the corner. "Damn him!" John swears but still climbs down the ladder, relieved at least he wouldn't be falling out of the sky and spattering against the pavement with the rain. The streets are empty; no one is stupid enough to be out in this vicious storm that's been going on the past few hours. No one but Sherlock- of course.

His feet thudding loudly and feeling himself beginning to slow (his limping leg cramps badly), John considers stopping. But then he sees movement across the road and sprints forward again to catch up with Sherlock.

Sherlock's caught him, the murderer, and has him pinned to the ground. One arm encircles tight around the man's neck in a half-nelson. "Call Lestrade," Sherlock grunts.

Breathing hard, John reaches into a pocket filled with water. Dismayed, he pulls out Harry's ruined mobile. "It's not working."

"Phone box- next street over, take the first left," Sherlock instructs and John takes off running again, ignoring the pain in his side.

By the time he returns (_when did I memorize Lestrade's mobile number_?), the man is lying unconscious on the pavement and Sherlock's hunched over the body, going through his pockets. When he hears John approaching, he looks up. His black wet curls drip into his eyes and he pushes them back.

Eyes squinting, John notices the cut on Sherlock's head. It's bleeding, the crimson running down his cheek with the rain. "Jesus, when did that happen?" He demands, kneeling to get a closer look. When Sherlock doesn't answer, John touches it lightly with his fingers and the detective flinches. John curses. He forces Sherlock to take off his scarf and press it against the wound.

It only takes a few minutes for the Met to arrive and the first thing they do is order Sherlock and John home. "We're going to pretend you never existed, okay?" Sally says, setting up police tape.

"Yes, I'm sure you'd like that," Sherlock returns, prepared for a verbal battle, but then he doesn't argue when John takes his elbow and begins dragging him off, muttering about head injuries and concussions.

Back at 221B, they quickly scurry up the stairs, sure Mrs. Hudson will complain later about the wet floors. Both of them are dripping, sopping wet as they enter their flat. Before either of them can change, John pours himself a glass of whiskey and knocks it back in one quick gulp. He feels the fire burn its way down his throat and spread through his belly.

"Can I have one?" Sherlock requests.

John stares at him in surprise. "A drink? Straight?"

"Please. Trust me, I'll need it," he adds ominously.

John does as asked. The excitement of the day not yet gone, he examines the still bleeding cut and declares Sherlock needs stitches. "We need to go to a hospital."

"No. You do it."

"What?" John asks, taken aback.

"You've done this sort of stuff before. We have materials; you do it."

John knows better than to argue. Before sterilizing the needle and washing his hands, he pours Sherlock another glass of whiskey and says, "This is the only anesthetic we have; drink up."

Finally, he takes the needle to the gash. The vase must have hit Sherlock with one of its iron edges; his skin is torn ragged as John holds the frayed ends together and pulls through pale skin. He can feel Sherlock's heat beneath his fingers. _This is the closest I'll get to brilliance._

It must have hurt like a motherfucker but Sherlock doesn't make a sound. _The rain_, John thinks, _is loud enough for both._

When the needlework is done, he lets out a sigh and pours the rest of the Jack Daniels into his own glass. Once he's drunk enough to make him less nervous about what he's done, John puts a bandage over the stitches and leans back to examine his handiwork.

He puts one hand on Sherlock's jaw to hold him steady and views the bandaging from all angles. His skin is warm to the touch, almost hot, and the stubble scratches John's palm. The detective meets his eyes, bright and sharp and intimate. John can smell the alcohol on his breath, the damp wool of his coat, and another muskiness he can't quite place. His breath hitches instinctively.

John reaches forward abruptly and kisses Sherlock. He doesn't know why he does it. His heart pounding loudly in his ears and Sherlock's scent enveloping him, John leans closer, his lips moving against soft yielding ones. When John pulls away giddy, he becomes painfully aware of his erect cock pressed against his trousers.

"What was that for?" Sherlock asks, his voice steady and deep like always.

"I don't. I just… I wanted to. I'm sorry," John babbles as his entire face blushes and his tongue stumbles. "It was the adrenaline, the alcohol- I'm drunk as shit and I had been wondering- I'm so sorry!"

"Wondering? Like an experiment?" Sherlock supplies.

"Experiment?" he repeats inanely. John stares at him dumbly for a moment before exclaiming, "Yes, experiment! I'm sorry!"

Sherlock smiles, both amused and understanding. "That's quite alright then. No need to apologize."

But John does apologize, again and again, before fleeing to his room and quietly jerking himself off. He doesn't mention the kiss later and neither does Sherlock. Which is fine with him.

* * *

Things have nearly gone back to normal between them. Still, John can't help but turn red when his eyes chance upon the scar on Sherlock's forehead. Then it happens again, at the gathering Lestrade has called together for his anniversary. Sherlock grumbles the entire cab-ride over that she's still cheating on him and the marriage was a joke.

"Please don't say anything; you'll ruin the party and hurt Lestrade," John begs.

"With the truth?" Sherlock scoffs.

"Yes."

So Sherlock promises he won't. At Lestrade's house, he tries to act nice but John can tell from the tension on his face that being in the social situation isn't working for him. He grits his teeth when talking with Sally and rolls his eyes at everything Lestrade's wife says. The last straw is when Anderson walks in- Sherlock throws up his hands and disappears from the room.

John can just hear him say "Who invited the village idiot?" before leaving. John tries to have a good time without Sherlock. Surely the consulting detective can take care of himself.

Later, when they're getting ready to cut the cake, Sherlock appears and takes John by the elbow. "Come with me," he says, blue eyes mischievous.

"Where?" John asks. Sherlock doesn't answer, merely takes him past the room and opens a closet underneath the stairs, unceremoniously shoving him inside and following. _Another one of his eccentric habits, I presume._

With the door closed, it's dark until Sherlock turns on the light and proclaims, "I'm bored."

John blinks at the mattress pushed up against the wall, the duvet folded on the carpet, extra sheets and towels stacked on the shelves. Then he returns his attention to Sherlock and echoes, "Bored?"

"I found where Lestrade keeps his mattress. He drags it out at nights when he doesn't sleep with his wife… which would be the entire past week," Sherlock tells him.

"Alright. So what do you want me to do about it?" John demands, shifting feet. Being in a tiny space with Sherlock hardly helps his attraction.

"Well, I thought we could experiment some more," Sherlock takes a step forward.

"On what?" John asks, though he suspects he already knows. Still, he steps back with each of Sherlock's advances until his back is pressed against the mattress.

"On this," Sherlock lowers his head and catches John's lips with his own.

John inhales sharply through his noise in shock but there's no room to complain. He hasn't been able to stop thinking about Sherlock- the taste of his mouth, his sharp eyes, the low baritone of his smooth voice, running his hands over well-toned long limbs. And perhaps Sherlock knows it.

They come up for air. Sherlock peers into John's eyes curiously. _Is he searching for a reaction?_

"They're going to miss me at the party and all our friends are here," John starts saying but Sherlock is at his jeans, unbuttoning and unzipping, and John's sentence finishes in an incoherent gasp. Then Sherlock's mouth is back on his own and John is melting into his hold. He considers pushing the detective back and taking some semblance of control. But there's no way he's giving up Sherlock's tongue tracing down his jaw and worrying his collarbone or his slender fingers wrapping around his dick.

John has just enough time to decide, _he's done this before,_ before his brain stops formulating thoughts and he's become putty. Sherlock's hand is pumping in John's pants. His thumb rubs over the head where he's already leaking precum, eliciting John to squeeze his eyes shut and moan, "Jesus!" and Sherlock hisses, "Shh!" before claiming his mouth again.

The last person to touch him was Sarah, but these certainly aren't Sarah's strokes now. With a sharp cry and his knees quaking, John comes into Sherlock's firm grip. He slowly opens his eyes again. Sherlock's leaned away, looking down at his hand.

John kicks into action, taking off his stained jumper and cleaning himself with it. "Here," he offers, voice hoarse. "Wipe your hand on it."

Sherlock nods and does so, efficiently folding it into quarters afterwards so the wet mark isn't visible. "Thank you, John," he says.

John goes for a laugh and ends up huffing, "For what? I should be thanking you. Erm- thanks."

"I was the one who was bored," Sherlock points out.

John just shakes his head. He straightens his button-up and questions, "So what now?"

"Well, maybe there's cake left," Sherlock says. "I'm starving."

* * *

Then it's at the airport. Sherlock had been quieter and (if possible) even stranger since Irene Adler. (_Had she broken his heart? Was it even possible for Sherlock Holmes to _have_ a broken heart?)_ John wonders what Mycroft has done with her and feels jealousy gnawing at him. He'd been a fool to think Sherlock had feelings for him since Lestrade's closet. He had been explicit that it was only happening because he was bored and experimenting.

Now he accompanies Sherlock at Heathrow Airport; he won't tell John where he was going, just that it was business about a case he'd received. They find his terminal and sit silently for a while. His flight has been delayed a few hours (_Why are you going to India? And why is this a connecting flight to another country? Why haven't you brought that second ticket in front of me?) _and John is in no mood to return to an empty flat alone.

John studies him. Sherlock's foot taps up and down as they wait on the uncomfortable plastic chairs. His only piece of luggage, a duffel bag, lies on the floor. Sherlock checks his watch, eyes flitting up to meet Johns briefly, then back to the people walking past them.

Abruptly, Sherlock rises, picks up his bag, and commands, "Let's go."

"Where?" John asks but he really should've known better than to question the consulting detective; if Sherlock wants to tell where, he would've by now. And if doesn't, asking did no good anyway. He follows Sherlock to the bathroom and shrugs. Normal enough.

What wasn't normal was Sherlock pulling him into the stall behind him, despite a man washing his hands at the basin.

"Sherlock, what're you-"

John cuts off when Sherlock whirls in the tiny space, somehow managing to remain graceful. His features are harsh under the bright fluorescents. The purplish circles under his eyes turn black under the sharp light. He looks frustrated and nervous and hungry. "I, I just." Sherlock stops, gathers himself and continues, "I need this right now."

He smashes his lips forward into John so their teeth knock together almost painfully. John's caught off guard and stumbles. There is no space to stumble into and so he just finds himself caught between Sherlock and the stall door. John can still hear the man at the sink washing his hands. He thinks, _again? This time with an audience beside us? Are we doing this, again?_

But it isn't actually _this, again._ It changes when Sherlock grasps John's hand with his own and guides it down to the bulge in his pants. Sherlock's already hard as he grinds closer. He groans and repeats, "I need this."

Sherlock works his fly open and that's when John realizes, _Sherlock bloody Holmes is asking me to get him off._

Though he hasn't done this since his drunken partying days at Uni, John drops to his knees and takes Sherlock's length into his mouth. He isn't sure if it's already familiar or returns to him quickly; either way, he remembers what to do. The steady breathing through his nose, tongue tracing down the shaft, hands, fingers, all of it.

In reward, he gets to see the brilliant detective squirming above him, panting and gasping until he comes. John swallows, experienced at this part. It's after he's done and stands that he isn't sure how to react. Sherlock only zips his trousers and unlocks the stall door. Either he doesn't know what to say either or he doesn't care to say anything at all.

John joins him a moment later at the now empty washbin (_I wonder how that guy reacted to Sherlock pulling me in the stall with him?)_ and meets his eyes in the mirror.

"Alright?" Sherlock asks.

John let's out an involuntary chuckle. _I've just given the guy a blowjob and he's asking me if I'm alright._ So much for pillow talk. "Yeah, fine," he answers because Sherlock doesn't see the humor in the situation and actually seems to be waiting for an answer.

"Right. I'll be waiting at the terminal," Sherlock says, shoulders his bag, and leaves.

_Where the hell is he going that has him so tense? _John can't think of anytime Sherlock has been so wound up. John rinses out his mouth and is just drying his hands when his mobile beeps that it has a text. John waits before he leaves the bathroom before checking; it's from Mycroft.

_I apologize on behalf of my brother. A washroom couldn't have been sanitary._ –MH

John stares at the screen in shock. Automatically, his eyes dart up to check the cameras on the airport ceiling. Was Mycroft watching? He plays dumb.

_What are you talking about?_ –JW

_Oh, come now. Or did my brother do that part?_ –MH

_Fuck off._ –JW

John powers his phone down to avoid any more unsavory replies from the old man watching from the trees and goes to Sherlock. He doesn't mention the text and Sherlock keeps mumbling secrets about anyone who walks past ("cheating on her husband," "smuggling drugs up his arse", "suffering from bulimia") until his flight is boarding. John goes with him to the gates.

"I'll be back within a week, John. And if I'm not, I'll call home," Sherlock smiles then turns. He vanishes among the backs of strangers.

John finds himself realizing this is the most considerate thing Sherlock's ever said to him. He thinks, _Sherlock said home._

* * *

The fourth time, John isn't sure which he should be: pleased with Sherlock or angry. As soon as any one emotion took precedence, the other would come up like a tidal wave and wash it away. _On one hand, he bloody drugged me. On the other, he admitted I was his only friend._

Was an experiment worth traumatizing his 'friend'? Perhaps in Sherlock's eyes it was. Perhaps John was the only one Sherlock trusted… _oh, right, he trusted my brain with being drugged._ Sherlock was most likely only being nice when he said that thing about friendship.

After all, this was a man who had once admitted he was a "highly functioning sociopath." If so, how easy could it be for a megalomaniac to confess his friendship? And even more- how did he actually stoop so low and apologize to John? The only other time Sherlock had ever apologized was to Molly Hooper last Christmas.

John was willing to think they were flatmates with (very) rare benefits and realized it was his mistake to label their relationship _friendship_. Sherlock's vehement denial had hurt initially but John conceded it was probably his fault. He shouldn't have rushed the detective.

(_Just like when he saw the hound and insisted in front of Henry Knight that he "didn't see anything." Is he afraid to admit things he doesn't fully understand? Does he understand friendship?)_

When John closes his eyes, he can still see the hazy darkness and hear growling. It had been sheer terror he'd felt at the lab. Just like he'd felt with bullets whizzing past him and men dying beside him during the war. His heart begins to race and he automatically curls up on the bed in fetal and tries to think of something else- of anything else. St. Barts, Sarah, 221B, the pub, _anything _but Sherlock. He doesn't think he can bear thinking of the detective for fear of the conflicting emotions. Anger and pleasure.

So John doesn't think about him at all.

Instead he wonders what happened to that pretty psychiatrist. He's halfway drifted off to being calm again when his door opens a crack. A slit of watery yellow light falls across the floor, shadows blocking half of it. John jerks up surprised, hands automatically groping the table beside him for his revolver.

"It's me," the tall figure says.

"Sherlock," John breathes, letting his hand relax.

"I came to ask if you were feeling better."

John consciously pulls the duvet closer up around his torso and says, "I'm sure I'd be even better if I got some sleep."

Sherlock chuckles, rich and deep. "No doubt you would be. But I caused temporary upheaval in your nervous system; surely there are side-effects to that involving loss of sleep. Or perhaps the loss of sleep is just me. I rarely rest but this is my scheduled time. I don't want to damage my immune system. It could be because our dosage varied-"

"I think I'm fine," John snaps, louder and edgier.

Sherlock stops rambling. John's vision has adjusted enough to the dark for him to notice Sherlock in his night-robe swaying where he stands, as if the words had physical weight. Sherlock clears his throat and observes, "You've been tossing and turning, your gun's within arm's reach, I see you've taken a pill for headache and I can smell that you've finished off all the alcohol you brought at the restaurant- a dangerous combination as a doctor very well knows- your eyes and lips are trembling, and your limp was acting up all of this evening. You are not, in fact, fine."

"So?" John demands, annoyed he's clumsy enough to leave all these clues for Sherlock.

The detective takes two quick steps forward so he's beside the bed and retorts, "So move over."

"Move- what? Where?"

"Move. Over." Sherlock repeats with mocking slowness.

John isn't sure what's going on but he complies anyway. Just like every other instance with Sherlock. The rooms they'd rented are nice by John's standards (though anything, really, is nice by his army standards) with full sized beds. John scoots to the right side of the mattress and looks up at Sherlock. "Okay."

"Good," Sherlock grins, pulls up the duvet, and slides in beside John.

For a moment, John's too stunned to speak. Sherlock's familiar smell of musk and soap surrounds him as he settles the duvet around both of them. Their legs touch under the covers and John stammers, "What- what are you _doing_?"

"Lay down," Sherlock instructs.

"Why?"

"I thought you wanted to sleep," Sherlock challenges.

"I do," John says warily, laying back on the cold side of the mattress.

"Well, so do I," and Sherlock leaned back into the bed, turning over on his side to face John. John's gaze flicks toward him; the other man's eyes are closed.

They lie in silence for a moment. "What're we doing?" John whispers.

"Sleeping," Sherlock tells him without opening his eyes. His breath is warm against John's skin, his posture relaxed.

Unsure if he's uncomfortable or trying to settle, John rolls over in the same direction as Sherlock. He considers turning back; he thinks it might be weird, turning his back on his friend. But then he feels Sherlock move forward and put a slender arm around him. Their cold feet touch again.

John doesn't protest. The detective is completely relaxed, his physique framing John with surprising effortlessness. John clears his throat to say something, but Sherlock talks before he can.

"John, trust… is not an easy thing for me. I'm so used to being judged. For what I am and how I act and the things I say. I've never been able to trust anyone with things like my life or love or secrets or, just, anything. Not my mother, not Mycroft, not my friends at Uni, not my colleagues. So do not take it easily when I say trust is everything- and that I've agreed to give it to you."

Sherlock's warm breath on John's ear is distracting so it takes the ex-doctor a moment to understand the value of what Sherlock is saying. He asks, "So basically, you're saying you've agreed to give me everything?"

"I don't know. Yes. Shut up and go to sleep."

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"I've got to ask: are you spooning me?"

"Shh."

"Well, whatever you're doing, keep doing that forever."

And he does.

* * *

Jim Moriarty's free. He's roaming the city totally unhindered and John knows the first place he'll be going is after Sherlock. He doesn't have to be a genius to figure that out. John's angry, he's furious honestly… and he's nervous. Because Sherlock's held in contempt of court and John went to the trial and Sherlock is at home- _alone._ And he hadn't been picking up his mobile.

And then stupid pompous Mycroft Holmes has to bloody kidnap him to the Diogenes and tell him there are international assassins staking out 221B, because it's not like phones or e-mail technology exists. And John is just so sick of it.

He usually doesn't take a cab when he's without Sherlock but this time he doesn't hesitate to stop one. John worries the entire way back and tries to be convincing that the consulting detective can take care of himself _(but even against a consulting criminal? One as insane as Moriarty?_)

When the cab stops at 221B, John unlocks the door and takes the stairs two at a time. He arrives to see an unfamiliar sight- Sherlock hunched over the sink.

John frowns. "Are you doing the dishes?"

"I'm washing away the remnants of an experiment. A _bad_ experiment. A foolish, preemptive _ORDINARY EXPERIMENT!_" Sherlock yells forcefully, his voice suddenly spiking up. Water splashes around him among the sound of glass clinking against the metal sink as Sherlock hunches down over the sink.

"Sherlock? What the fuck happened? Are you angry about Moriarty? _Are those Mrs. Hudson's good teacups and are you breaking them?_" John takes a single step forward, standing beside the garbage bin. He can see an apple in the can, but then his attention returns to Sherlock when he starts talking.

"I think I've done something stupid, John." Sherlock's voice is low and anguished.

"Alright," John inhales. This is probably not the time to mention the professional assassins. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No. No, I don't," he whispers.

John moves closer, putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulders. He guides him away from the kitchen to the couch. "It's okay, Sherlock. We'll figure it out. _You'll_ figure it out. You always do."

"You don't understand. Someone owes me something and I don't want to collect. I never want to collect," Sherlock sinks down on the sofa and takes John's outstretched hand. "You would be there, John? If something… happened that I couldn't explain, would you be there?"

"There isn't a force on earth that can keep me away," John promised.

Sherlock pulled John's hand down to kiss him. It was unrelenting and sharp, yet nothing like the urgency from the airport. It was burning, but different than the warmth from the hotel room. Sherlock stood up suddenly, breaking the kiss. Still holding John's hand, he started toward his room.

"You know that I care for you, correct?" Sherlock asked, opening the door and letting John in behind him.

"Yes. In your own way. I know."

"Well, I want you to really know. Properly. I don't want there to be any doubt." Sherlock barely waits until he's through the door before continuing where he left off, his cupid lips persuading John into moving his own. He works the jacket off John's shoulders, letting it fall unceremoniously to the floor, already starting on the flannel shirt underneath. Sherlock's long fingers trace down the gunshot scar John sports on his upper torso, the raised skin sensitive to touch.

John becomes more responsive, leading Sherlock to the bed and tidy sheets. He sheds Sherlock's clothes along the way. With all the fabric finally out of the way and Sherlock lying back on the mattress, John lavishes attention on the detective. Fingers running through curly hair, over his pale muscled chest, down to his navel. John _marvels_.

"How do we do this? I don't know how to- I've never-" Sherlock swallows and presses closer to John.

John hesitates and pulls away. "What do you mean you've never done this? I thought you knew. That day at Lestrade's party…"

"I know _that_ part," Sherlock says plaintively. "Anyone can perfect manual sex… especially once you know how to masturbate. It's just that I haven't gone all the way with anyone. I imagine it's a particularly intimate moment with someone you truly trust. And I want to share it with you. I don't want you to think there's anything left."

"Sherlock, you don't have to do this," John assures him. His throat feels dry and tight.

Sherlock shakes his head and his eyes flick down to where John has gone limp. "I thought you wanted to," Sherlock says. He looks hurt through his confusion, propped up on his elbow with John still looming over him.

"I _do._ I really do. Just not like this. Not while you're still uncertain about it. I want you to be comfortable. You don't have to prove anything to me, Sherlock."

"I just wished it was easier than this. I wish…" Sherlock stops himself and kisses John. "I just wish for you know. I think this is what I want. And I don't know how to say it."

"So you don't say it." John leans down and kisses him lightly, just grazing. "I know, I know, I know. I feel the same as you."

* * *

Inspired by and borrowed from: watch?v=dYJ3I5rRkZQ


End file.
